There is an elderly gentleman ( he must be older than I, or I would not think of him as elderly) whom I see sometimes in Tunbridge Wells. He has white hair, a bushy, white moustache, and rings under his eyes. He is always well dressed and has a military bearing. He has just acquired a walking stick and carries a satchel over his shoulder. On my way out this afternoon, I pass him going in a different direction. Later, on my return, I see him resting on a bench in Calverley Park, I sense that he is going in the same direction as I. I find myself wondering whether he, too, is bound for the cafe, and worry about how he will negotiate the very steep steps down to the path that leads to the cafe. I find that, in a way, I am walking with him and wonder what is going on his head. While I sip my tea, I notice that he has taken the easier path that does not lead to the cafe. I watch him as he follows the path at the top of the slope opposite the cafe, note that he sits on a bench there for a second rest. It has been a long walk. When I next look, he has walked on. I try to picture him getting home and making himself a cup of tea slowly and precisely. Because I always see him by himself, I imagine that he lives on his own. I follow him into a sitting room where he picks up a book on military history, and sinks into an easy chair ...
A fritata, made with chard, the liquid squeezed out of the boiled leaves, the stems chopped and cooked separately and for a longer time. The slow-cooked cake-like omelet, with its marbled surface, looks as good as it tastes.
A French phrase which appeals is tourner sept fois sa langue dans sa bouche, to rotate one's tongue seven times in one's mouth, to think before you speak.
I think we could all benefit from #3. I'll have to try that one out.
Have a great day!
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